


The Little Things

by AwayLaughing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Purple Hawke, Religion, The Chantry (Dragon Age), and this is very lightly SebHawke, but it's there!, ft. crotechy Fereldens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:18:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16983687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: Chantry service is not a new thing to Hawke. Despite her reputation she did indeed used to go whenever she was supposed to. So attending one to finally appease poor Sebastian isn't that radical.Except she hasn't attended lately. And she may have forgotten one important thing.She was going to have to listen to Elthina. Forhours





	The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chillydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/gifts).



Kirkwall didn’t get snow. Oh Kirkwall _thought_ it got snow, but it didn’t. It got slush – slush she was trying to kick off before she went into the chantry and failing because she invariably had to put her foot back down to shake the other one off.

 

Was there a clear solution to the problem? Yes. Was she going to take it? Well when had she _ever_ taken the easy way out?

 

“Are you coming in, or are you going to shake your boots off all day?”

 

“I was thinking boots,” Hawke said, looking up at Sebastian, who must have been told she was at the door being weird. Or maybe just told she was at the door – she thought the locals might have a slightly unfair view of her normalcy at this point. As if _Kirkwall_ had any room to speak.

 

Sebastian chuckled softly. “Well we all find the Maker in our own ways,” he said. “However if you step on the carpet after one gets clean, you’ll have solved the problem.”

 

“I’m too weak to hold this big nasty door open,” she said, adopting her best puppy eyes. Sebastian’s laugh was not a snort at all and he instead took another step so he was supporting the door with his whole arm.

 

“Then let me,” he said, moving so he was out of the way.

 

“Why thank you? About time someone around here remembered gallantry. It’s a lost art you know.”

 

He chuckled again and Hawke, knowing defeat when she saw it – and never mind anything Aveline told you _she did_ – finally entered. Inside it was quiet as usual, though a few people were already at the pews. They didn’t look up when she entered, all of them busy with their prayer already. For one mad second she had the urge to shout, to see if that would do anything but because she did indeed have self control she didn’t.

 

Who actually did that sort of thing, anyway?

 

“I need to finish setting up,” he said, carefully still in the way she associated with nobility and hunters alike. “I shouldn’t be long and will join you for the service will you-”

 

“I’ll be fine Sebastian,” she said, equipping her cockiest smile, “despite my track record I can indeed avoid getting in trouble when I’m here.” She took a seat at the nearest pew. “See – I shan’t move.”

 

“Alright Hawke,” he said, smile playing on his lips. It made him look so much younger, she thought, when he smiled. She wished he did it more. But then, she supposed, not everyone lost their whole family and kept smiling through it.

 

If you believed Varric and Aveline, _most_ people didn’t but Varric had lost everyone and he was still smiling. Or smirking, more often than not. Aveline just wasn’t in the habit in general – Hawke made a mental note to work on that more.

 

“Tata Sebastian,” she said, waving him off. “Before the mothers get cross.”

 

Sebastian left, his chuckle following him and she watched, and listened, until the hush returned. A man on the back pew near her was eying her – unlike herself or the others here, he was dressed in threadbare work clothes. When he saw her looking back he hurriedly looked away.

 

Once upon a time they would have shared a secret look, a _can you believe what these people are wearing_ look. A _is that pillar gold plated_ look. A _I know you’ve seen some shit and so have I and I respect that_ look.

 

Now it was all – _oh Maker please don’t let the crazy noble woman take offence at my existence._

 

And why, because she got lucky in the deeproads – aside from losing her last sibling forever anyway? Because her mother couldn’t let go and appreciate the life they’d already worked hard for and dragged them to this Maker forsaken town. What good did that do – the Amell name was back and the only person interested in it was _dead_. Killed by a mad man and Hawke had a fancy empty house and a title that meant doing _all the things_ because apparently no one else could be assed to.

 

How was that better than before? Getting snowed in and playing stupid games until you could get out. The farm in the summer, the feel of dirt and _just_ dirt under your fingernail. The simple, quiet accessibility of Lothering’s chantry. Father alive, mother alive, Bethany and Carver still with her.

 

Of course she couldn’t see Varric on a farm – or Fenris for that matter. Aveline would have made it work, probably. If she had to. Lothering had a bar so that might entice Isabela – never mind the nearest coastline was a lake. In fact, the very image of any of her friends – even Merrill – seemed suspect.

 

As she tried to picture Fenris armed with a hoe, people started to file in and the heat of the building started to go up. Which was impressive, given it was giant and stone and usually cold as Mafareth’s balls in here. Quickly the seats filled up – and soon Hawke was surrounded by the familiar smell of chokedamp. Looking over she found a large family of slightly unnerved Fereldens. The space to her left, she judged, was still roughly Sebastian sized and when a person approached she grinned brightly.

 

“I’m saving this,” she said, “go away.” The person blinked – and then clearly decided taking her advice was best. Then she turned back to her fellow displaced countrymen. “Hello,” she said.

 

“I know you,” a little boy who looked rather haggard said. “You killed that slaver t’other week. You and that glowy fellow.”

 

“He gave us a sovereign,” a little girl who was fairing slightly better in the not-looking-weirdly-old category said. “I didn’t know they made rich elves.”

 

Hawke considered that a moment. “He’s entrepreneurial,” she said, since, from a certain point of view ‘killing people with a very big sword and glowing-phasey-hand’ was exactly that. They looked at her blankly. “He does a lot of stuff,” she said, which was even less honest. Since mostly he killed things.

 

And all that aside there was a good chance he’d looted that sovereign from the slaver because Fenris was not rich. A rich elf would bribe the guards to leave him alone himself.

 

“You two,” their mother, or caretaker, said, “shush. Service is about to begin.”

 

“Oh joy,” Hawke said. “I love being serviced.”

 

The only grown man in the group gave an aborted chuckle – it was sort of a _snerk_ noise and got a Look from the two other grown women in the group.

 

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, appearing from nowhere – or maybe from behind a tapestry.

 

“Sebastian,” she said. “I saved your seat.”

 

“I see that,” he said, grinning gently. “Hello,” he said to the Fereldens who appeared to be deciding if they should be honoured a brother of Chantry was joining them, or suspicious. They seemed to settle on something half way between the two. That or they were noticing their own mildew smell and put off. Hawke considered telling them she smelled of worse – but then Sebastian gently elbowed her. When she refocused on him she found him staring up.

 

Ah, she thought, following his gaze, Elthina, of course. Sebastian eyes were shining in the candle light – as was his brow, in the closeness. She wished he was in his armour, it would have been very reflective.

 

“She’s prepared a very good sermon,” he said, sounding very earnest.

 

“Oh goody, I’d have hate to come to a bad one,” Hawke said. He nodded – clearly too busy being enraptured to actually listen to her. Ahead Elthina held up a hand, stilling the final death throws of the already hushed conversation. A silence as complete as when this place was empty covered everything. Even the children stopped scratching at their fleas, going still without needing a reprimand.

 

“Hello,” she said, voice ringing out. “Familiar faces and new alike – I see the flame of the Maker in your eyes and it warms me as nothing else could.”

 

“I think that’s the candles,” Hawke said. Sebastian’s eyes darted to her, but he didn’t actually say anything. The girl bit down a giggle.

 

“Behave,” the woman hissed – and Hawke startled a little to see it was directed at her.

 

“Yes ma’am,” she said and hunkered down to listen to Elthina talk. Which, she supposed she should have expected when she agreed to actually come, and then maybe she would have turned it down since as a rule she did not spend much time listening to Elthina.

 

“--ker’s Song was ringing in my ears as I planned what I would say today,” she said. “And I realized I had known all along because in times of discomfort and strife, where do we turn, but the Chant?”

 

A low hum started – it rang and echoed, bringing little bumps to her skin.

 

“ _Maker, my enemies are abundant._

 _Many are those who rise up against me._ ”

 

Trials, she thought and bit back a sigh. It had been a favourite with the old Mother in Lothering – back when she was a child not the one likely eaten by a darkspawn. A staunch loyalist – meaning in this case Orlesian – she’d been fairly certain her entire congregation was her trial and so every second sermon had been this.

 

Though Hawke had to admit, she’d never heard it like _this_.

 

Seeing as she didn’t have an excuse of not knowing the canticle – she did – Hawke gave in and pitched her voice in. She felt Sebastian physically startle next to her and fought back a grin – and promptly promised herself _not_ to use the improvised lyrics she and farmer Gradin’s boys had thought up to mess with Mother Renee.

 

When they hit the last note she was feeling good, letting her voice drop with everyone else’s. Until she realized they were just taking a breath.

 

“More?” she asked. Sebastian nodded.

 

“That was only the first of the Trials,” he pointed out, “there’s 22 in total.”

 

Mother Renee, bless her, had topped out four which meant so did Hawke’s knowledge.

 

“Sebastian _no,”_ she said even as everyone around them starting singing about enduring. “I don’t _want_ to endure _all bloody 22_.” Not even for you, she thought. Except she was here and not heading for the door – clearly she’d gone mad.

 

Sebastian pat her again. “It’s not so bad – the words are in that book,” he said.

 

“ _Hng_ ,” she said because life was unfair. The Ferelden woman reached over her grubby children to smack her head, green eyes smouldering as she pointedly sang

 

“ _Though all stands in my way,_

 _I will not bow to false gods_.”

 

Hawke wondered why that was pointed. Hawke was not pretending to be a god of any sort. Well maybe the god of saving Hubert’s ass. Which reminded her – she needed to check up on the Bonepit. Things had been quiet there, and that was never a good thing when it came to the Bonepit.

 

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, “I tease. She only does 1 and 5.”

 

“Oh thank the Maker,” Hawke said. “And then we go home?”

 

Sebastian eyed her again. “No, Hawke.” And then he went back to singing. Passionately – not poorly – but very passionately. Feeling chastened she took the little booklet and – and wow.

 

She did not know typeset _came_ that small.

 

* * *

 

If she thought singing Trials 1 and 5 was onerous nothing, _nothing_ compared to listening to Elthina just talk. It wasn’t that she had a bad speaking voice, it was just that Hawke wasn’t, apparently, allowed to make commentary. Sitting there not saying anything was _her_ Trials it seemed – but Sebastian’s eyeing got progressively more wounded as the service wound on and frankly, she was risking brain damage from her neighbour.

 

So she sat – and tried not to twiddle and made herself sing along during the breaks and didn’t say a _thing_ that hadn’t been written by someone else.

 

Nor did she carve anything into the pew. And it was not because Sebastian reached over and took her boot knife half way through.

 

Two pews up an older gentleman was clearly asleep now – head back and snoring – and everyone ignored him. She was horribly envious – her neighbours would have woken her even if she could sleep on these desperate uncomfortable things. Maybe it was some sort of old people magic.

 

“I don’t reckon we’ll ever get that old, will we,” she said, forgetting she was saying _nothing_. And then remembering as the words left her mouth. She turned slightly to make sorry eyes at Sebastian – but found that instead of judgmental little looks her had turned to her. His eyes found hers and the ensuing stare down was both very compassionate and very unnerving. She didn’t look away though – and felt no need.

 

“I don’t know,” he said, voice pitched very low. “But I’d like to try.”

 

“...so would I,” she admitted. He nodded, once and turned back, but he reached out, his hand tangling with hers.

 

Up in the pulpit, Elthina was looking ready to stop. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

 

“-rough loss and hardship we find ourselves born anew, every day,” she said. “For in the Maker’s eyes, the struggles of his children are all equal. He noticed the smallest of deeds,” her eyes swept the room and for a moment Hawke thought they landed on her, “and values them as much as the highest. Now go, and carry in your always the Chant of Light.”

 

There was a murmured response about carrying it carefully and Hawke watched as the so called Faithful very quickly started to get up. Around them the choir started to hum back to life.

 

“Exit music,” she said, “delightful.”

 

“I suppose it is, for those exiting,” Sebastian said. “Thank you Hawke, for coming.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” she said. She was about to say _it was terrific_ except she was again looking him in the eye and also she _was_ in a Chantry and maybe bold faced lying was not the way to go. Except for the thrill of knowing the words at the very start not much _had_ caught her attention. Not even that odd little segue about a goat kept her interested for long. More often than not she found herself composing stories for the people around her.

 

And then really wishing Varric were here to help her narrate.

 

“It’s important to you,” found herself saying. “And you’re important to me.”

 

“Ew,” the boy next to her said. “If you’re gonna be lovey with a brother go away.”

 

“You go away,” she said, turning. He stuck his tongue out. Like any mature adult, she responded. The adults seemed done – and the slappy lady reached over, yanking the boy away.

 

“Come on, the bread lines will be long if we wait,” she said.

 

“They’re _always_ long,” the boy argued. Hawke turned back to Sebastian, who was very pink.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that colour,” she said, and watched him go pinker still. “It’s fetching. You should have your armour redone.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, voice a little tight. “I uh, I’ll see you at the Tavern?”

 

“You’re coming?” she asked delighted.

 

He paused, and then said, “well it’s Wicked Grace night and while I don’t gamble...it’s important to you.”

 

Hawke, for the record, did not go pink. Not even a little.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was a fun prompt - this part of the request immediately caught my eye. I tried to blend the platonic prompt with a little SebHawke - but Hawke's commentary wandered a little. I hope you enjoy this and have a great holiday season!


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